


Of Wings Shining In Darkness

by earthspirits



Series: Demimonde of Shadows - Stories Set in the World of Penny Dreadful [5]
Category: Penny Dreadful TV, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes (Granada) - Fandom, penny dreadful - Fandom
Genre: Angels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Christmas, Christmas Miracles, David Burke as Dr. John H. Watson, Death of a loved one, Declarations Of Love, Developing Friendship, Dr. John H. Watson - Freeform, Dracula - Freeform, Dracula/Doctor Alexander Sweet, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ethan Chandler - Freeform, Ethan Lawrence Talbot, Evelyn Poole - Freeform, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hecate Poole - Freeform, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Inspector Rusk - Freeform, Jeremy Brett as Sherlock Holmes, John Clare - Freeform, Kaetenay - Freeform, Love, Love at First Sight, Loving Marriage, Lupus Dei, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Miracles, Protectiveness, Redemption, References to Character Death, Reincarnation, Reincarnational love, Resurrection, Revenge, Romance, Scorpion Queen, Sembene - Freeform, Sexual Content, Shaman - Freeform, Shamanism, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Sir Malcolm Murray - Freeform, Soulmates, Star-crossed love, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tarot, Thoughts of Suicide, Tragic Romance, True Love, Vampires, Vanessa Ives - Freeform, Vengance, Warrior Angel, Werewolf, Werewolf Curse, Winter, Wolf of God, beauty and the beast symbolism, classic horror, consensual romance, consensual sex / lovemaking, curse, death and the grieving process, devoted friendship, gunfighter, gunslinger, post traumatic stress syndrome, reference to sexual activity, references to violence, soul searching, soulmate love, star-crossed lovers, survivor syndrome, survivor's guilt, vampire, vampiric, victor frankenstein - Freeform, wolf - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-07-22 01:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7413997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earthspirits/pseuds/earthspirits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His noble heart broken, Ethan Chandler is tempted to join his beloved in death.  Only one thing stays his hand – His vow of vengeance against the dark being that condemned her.</p><p>This story takes place after "The Falling of Stars", and on the same night as "Flower of His Heart" and "Sudden Visitations".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _SPOILERS:_ Contains S3 spoilers.
> 
>  _RATING / WARNINGS:_ Mature. This chapter of my story alludes to death and the grieving process, with survivor's guilt, and thoughts of suicide. There are also references to violence, character death, and vengeance. Written in a subtle manner, but may possibly be triggering for some. There's also a bit of strong language + a brief reference to sexual activity.

The light was fading, and it had turned bitterly cold. It was going to rain. Dark clouds gathered thickly along the horizon, and the wind had risen. The garden was a dismal place of dying roses and weed-choked flowerbeds, long untended. A large statue stood at the center, half-smothered by ivy. It was made of some sort of stone that glittered in the dull light, faintly iridescent. One of the angel’s great wings was broken. The angel was a woman, her head bent in sorrow.

Nearby was a marble bench - upon it was seated a young man, his posture of grief mirroring the angel’s. He had dark brown hair, and was very tall, his bearded face criss-crossed with wounds that had barely begun to heal. He wore a dark leather duster that was stained with blood - not all of it his. Like the broken wolf he was, he had come out to the garden to die alone. In one hand, he held a tarot card - The Lovers. That afternoon, after they had returned from the funeral, he had found it on the floor of her bedroom. The card was worn from much handling, its edges bent. Vanessa's tears had ruined the finish. She had scribbled his name, and hers, in ink across its front. In his other hand, was a Colt revolver. 

Another man – this one also tall, but older, with a neatly trimmed full beard - slowly approached him. Some sixth sense had called him to the garden. “Ethan – Come in the house, you can’t stay out here all night”. 

Ethan Chandler shrugged, and continued staring at his gun. “She asked me to do it.” His voice was low, harsh with unshed tears. “God knows - I didn’t want to. I would rather have died myself than ever harm her. She was my life, my soul.” He raised the gun's barrel to his head. “I love her – I’ll always love her.” 

“I know, son,” Sir Malcolm Murray replied softly. “And she knew it. That’s why it was _you_ she asked.” He stretched out his hand – palm up - towards the gun. “Give that to me, Ethan – _please_.”

The American glanced up. His handsome features were ravaged by grief. “Everyone I’ve ever loved has been taken from me by death. And when the moon is full, I become a heartless thing that kills without mercy – only once did I refrain. It was in Evelyn Poole’s mansion - and that was because it was Vanessa who stood before me. Even as that thing – that wolf – I couldn’t harm her. She was mine and I was hers. She knew me – even as the beast – knew me and loved me. As I loved her." With a motion as familiar as breathing, he cocked the gun's trigger. "And now she's dead - because of me.” 

“She always loved you, Ethan - I think we all knew it. Even from the very first. And that’s why you mustn’t do this. Vanessa would want you to go on.” His hand was still outstretched, waiting.

“It’s _my_ fault that Dracula got to her,” Ethan said bitterly. “I should have been _here_ , protecting her. Instead – like a fool – I turned myself into Rusk, and got dragged back to the States to stand trial. Once I arrived, my father's men were waiting. But they weren't the only ones. Evelyn Poole’s daughter, Hecate, had followed me to America. But you already know that." 

Sir Malcolm nodded. "Kaetenay sensed it - We knew you were under some sort of siege, and that we must save you."

"In the desert," Ethan continued. "I fell under her spell, turning my back on everyone and everything that mattered. I was too angry and hurt to even realize that she’d cast a sex spell on me, just as her mother did to you." It had been a moment of madness when he'd sought temporary oblivion in her arms. How much of that had been Hecate's evil magic - and how much his own pain and desperation, he would never know. "She had me sympathizing with her, told me how her mother had given her as a child to Lucifer. I could no longer think clearly around her. I walked in a haze of rage and confusion. She was constantly at me - urging me to darkness. She had me so wrapped around her little finger, that I couldn't even remember what she'd done to Vanessa. My God, I was even ready to shoot you, to protect her. Hecate was trying to bring me over to her master, Lucifer - and she almost succeeded - until my father put a bullet in her. The moment she died, her damned influence died with her. And I suddenly realized just how close I had come to completely betraying Vanessa.” 

“When Evelyn Poole bewitched me, I did the same thing," Sir Malcolm said. "Without a thought, I turned my back on everyone. All I could think of was Evelyn - I scarcely knew who I was at the time.” He gestured at the Colt. "Ethan - put the gun down, and give it to me."

With a sigh, Ethan uncocked the pistol and slowly lowered it, holding it loosely in his hand. A tear slid down his cheek.

Gently, Sir Malcolm took the gun from Ethan’s fingers. “It’s one of my most shameful memories. You're not alone in feeling remorse and guilt, Ethan. And you weren't the only one who was not here for Vanessa - If you recall, I'd gone away to Africa to bury Sembene.” 

“Another stain on my soul - since it was I that killed him."

"You were not yourself at the time. Sembene knew - as the moon rose - what would happen. He forgave you."

"He was my friend - and I killed him," Ethan said. "For that alone, I deserve to burn. But none of this changes anything. In the end, I failed in my responsibility to the woman I love.“ He stood, his dark eyes flashing with anger. "You’re right – I can’t die – at least, not yet. Not until I avenge Vanessa, and kill the cowardly bastard who did this to her.”

The other man laid a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “We’ll get him, Ethan.”

“You can give me back my gun – I promise the only one I’m going to shoot with it is Dracula.”

Sir Malcolm stared at Ethan for a long moment. Finally – with some reluctance - he handed the Colt back to its owner. "Very well – now come inside. It will take more than your gun to stop such as he. Pity that the full moon has passed - you and Kaetenay are quite formidable in your wolf forms."

Ethan laughed bitterly. It was Kaetenay he had to thank for the burden of his curse. "So - Where is he?"

"In his room, on a vision quest - He's searching the city for Dracula's hiding place. Tomorrow morning, we'll lay plans for our attack. It will be best to seek the vampire in daylight – he’ll be at his weakest then.”

"All right," Ethan murmured. He took one last look at the tarot card, and carefully tucked it into his vest pocket. It had grown dark, and the rain was starting to fall, a chill drizzle he could feel even through his heavy coat. In the distance, he could hear the sound of thunder. He had no intention of waiting until morning. Shoving his Colt into its holster, the American grimly followed Sir Malcolm from the garden.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On this freezing December night, a grimly determined Ethan Chandler heads into the storm, seeking vengeance. 
> 
> And elsewhere in the great city - Vanessa Ives has finally awakened.
> 
> This story takes place after "The Falling of Stars", and on the same night as "Flower of His Heart" and "Sudden Visitations".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS: Contains S3 spoilers.
> 
> RATING / WARNINGS: This story is mature. In this chapter, there are references to the grieving process, with thoughts of vengeance. There are also references to character death. Written in a subtle manner, but may possibly be triggering for some. There's also a bit of strong language.

The storm had hit in earnest. Ethan pulled the collar of his duster up, in a vain attempt to keep the icy water from pouring down the back of his neck. He had been walking for almost an hour, his mind numb with mingled anguish and rage. 

He had left the neighborhood of Sir Malcolm’s town house, and was wandering along a narrow street lined with small elegant shops, all closed at this late hour. Residences were situated on the floors above, and Ethan glanced upwards, attracted by the warm glow of a candle flame dancing within a bay window. Faintly, he could hear a violin, its melancholy strains blending with the sound of wind and rain. Someone else also couldn’t sleep this dismal night.

Now that the monsters had been defeated, Londoners were starting to return to normal. There were a few Christmas wreaths hung on doors, and in their darkened display windows, some of the stores had set out tempting displays of holiday trinkets, which glittered in the pale gaslight of the street lamps.

The season of hope, where none existed for him - For without Vanessa, what hope was there? It was dead in his soul. 

There was no one else on the street. Perhaps that was just as well, Ethan thought. In his current mood, he wasn’t fit company for man or beast. He smiled wryly. Well, to be truthful, there was one beast in evidence – himself.

He was shivering from the frigid damp. If the sleeting rain got any colder, it would turn into snow. The cobbled pavement was already frosting over, and Ethan could see his breath misting in front of his face. 

So far, he had not detected Dracula’s energy pattern. Had the vampire left the city? Or just hidden himself away, burrowed somewhere in its stygian depths?

*****

John Clare smiled, and ladled vegetable broth into a chipped stoneware bowl. Carefully, he handed the steaming bowl and a pewter spoon to the woman huddled on the old sofa. She was covered by a blue woolen shawl, and wore a clean white flannel nightshirt that was too large for her, as it belonged to Victor Frankenstein. Her fine-boned face was almost as pale as the linen of the heaped pillows she leaned against.

“I’m so glad you’re finally awake,” John murmured happily. “And it’s an excellent sign that you have an appetite.”

“Indeed it is,” Victor added. He was leaning against the wall, a worn quilt wrapped around his shoulders. His lean face was utterly exhausted, but his eyes shone with a deep and profound joy. He was greatly relieved that Vanessa had seemingly not suffered any amnesia or alteration to her personality.

Vanessa Ives fondly regarded her two old friends. “I hardly know what to say,” she finally muttered, her voice raspy after her strange ordeal. “But I’m glad to be back – and I thank you both for bringing me home.” She wrapped her hands around the bowl, for a moment just savoring its warmth. Finally she dipped the spoon into the broth, her hand shaking a bit as she brought it to her lips, splashing a little of the hot liquid onto the shawl. 

“Go slowly with the soup,” Victor cautioned. “You don’t want to overdo it, as your body is still adjusting.” 

“To being alive?” Vanessa replied. She chuckled, the sound of her laughter like dry leaves rattling in the wind.

John Clare and Victor exchanged worried glances.

“It’s all right,” Vanessa said, correctly assessing their concern. She took another sip of broth. “You don’t have to sugarcoat things - I know I was dead. And I’m aware of everything that happened after I died.”

Victor stepped forward, his expression puzzled. “You were indeed dead, Vanessa. But – How did you know what had transpired after your death?” 

“I was watching, of course - From the other side. I saw it all – everything that transpired. And I knew - with a dreadful certainty - what a truly ghastly mistake I had made in seeking that death.” She shook her head, her sapphire eyes intense. “I know so much more now - so much more - but I scarcely know how to describe any of it."

Despite his burning curiosity, Victor's concern was for his patient. "If you feel up to it - you can tell us later. For now, eat, rest, and heal. You've been through a lot, and need to recover your strength."

"Unforgivably, I let all of you down – the people that I love," Vanessa replied. "It’s a damned good thing that you didn’t give up on me, the way I gave up on myself.”

John Clare gently patted her hand. “Please don't blame yourself, Vanessa - We could never give up on you. None of us could.”

She smiled faintly. “This soup is good – perfect fare for a cold winter’s night.”

“I’m glad you approve,” John said. “Would you like some tea to go with it?”

Vanessa nodded. “That would be lovely.”

John turned to the cupboard by the hearth, and busied himself with the tea things. Absently, he heard the low murmuring of his friends’ voices, as he poured tea from the old pottery teapot into a flowered mug. It was growing cold, so he threw another log on the fire. Golden sparks flew up the chimney, while outside, the wind howled like a damned thing. But here in Victor's humble quarters, the world had suddenly become a much better place, one filled with love and hope. Vanessa was back. John's eyes fell on the little calendar that hung above the mantle. It was hard to believe that Christmas would soon be here, yet somehow the season had arrived, despite all of the horror that had gone before. Tomorrow, they would send word to Ethan Chandler and the others. What better gift could any of them receive, than the return of Vanessa Ives to the land of the living? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Obviously Penny Dreadful, and its characters, as well as the characters of classic horror literature and film, belong to their respective creators / writers / networks, etc. I'm just a devoted fan playing in their sandbox, and make no profit, etc.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ethan Chandler encounters a horrific foe - and a new ally - on the dark and dangerous backstreets of London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS: Contains S3 spoilers.
> 
> RATING / WARNINGS: Mature. This chapter of my story contains violence / death / horror / some gore + references to character death and vengeance. May possibly be triggering for some. There's also a bit of strong language.

At the end of the next street, Ethan came to an abrupt halt. His eyes narrowed. He could sense _something_ lingering in a nearby alleyway - something decidedly inhuman. Cautiously, he drew his Colt, and stepped into the dank opening of the alley. Only a sliver of pale gaslight illuminated the darkness, and he stiffened as he caught a whiff of fresh blood. A trail of scarlet led into the depths of the alley, vivid against the gray cobblestones. Whatever it was, it was either wounded – or (more likely) – dragging some unfortunate prey deeper into its lair.

Quietly, Ethan advanced, and very carefully cocked his revolver. He had taken the precaution of loading it with silver bullets that he had made from some of Sir Malcolm’s plate. As he crept further into the alley, he could hear a horrible wet slurping sound. As his boots crunched on a bit of broken glass, the sound ceased, and suddenly two small, but brilliant red lights bloomed in the blackness – eyes. Ethan could just make out a dark man-shaped form hunched over another form that lay motionless on the ground. Someone was moaning in pain.

“You!” the American called out. “Step away, and put your hands up. Now – or I shoot!”

The response was a deep growl, as the thing leaped up, and rushed towards Ethan, clawed hands outstretched. Without flinching, the American took aim. There was a roar and a billow of smoke as the gun fired. The thing screamed in agony and toppled in a heap, like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut.

The westerner strode towards his downed quarry. He cocked his gun, and stared grimly into the twisted features of something that had once been a man. The face was bestial, the eyes glaring crimson, the mouth filled with too many sharp teeth, blood dribbling down its chin and coating its tattered clothing, which had once been a gentleman’s fine suit. There were two bullet holes in its chest - one had already started to close up, but drops of stolen blood seeped and bubbled from the other. This wound was from Ethan’s Colt. It gave off a foul stench, its edges singed and bloody, and ringed with dark silver. The thing twitched, and as Ethan watched, its eyes glazed, its unnatural life force draining away. One of Dracula’s spawn, Ethan thought, and grimaced in disgust. Soon, there was nothing left of the monster, save some bones and a grinning skull that crumbled into the dingy collar of its silken shirt. What had the vampire king offered this miserable wretch for it to give up its humanity?

Ethan’s lips tightened, as he remembered Dracula’s manipulation of Vanessa Ives. For that, he would pay. If the vampire’s minions still lingered in London, then he too must still be in the city. The American would not rest until he found his enemy, and destroyed him.

Another moan came from the darkness, and Ethan hurried to the shape stretched upon the blood stained pavement. This proved to be a tall, muscular man in his early thirties, clad in a long overcoat and gray tweed suit. A crushed bowler hat and pistol lay nearby. Obviously the man had defended himself, not realizing that a regular lead bullet would do little against a vampire. The fallen man was clean-shaven, save for an elegant mustache. His sandy brown hair was disheveled, his handsome face blanched, the lids of his closed eyes almost translucent. Blood dripped from savage wounds on his throat, but thankfully, he was still breathing. By the grace of God, the poor fellow was alive, although just barely. Ethan needed to get him to a doctor, and soon.

He holstered his revolver, and leaning down, unwrapped his woolen scarf, and used it to staunch the flow of blood from the man’s wounds, making of it a rough bandage. He eyed the gun that lay on the ground. With a deft motion, he scooped it up and thrust it into one of his coat pockets, reasoning that its owner would later appreciate the weapon's return. Carefully, Ethan pulled the stranger upright. As he did so, the man’s eyes fluttered, and slowly opened. Silvery gray, they were hazed with pain and confusion. “Where am I?” he mumbled.

“It’s all right,” Ethan soothed, and as the man staggered, he wrapped one arm firmly around the other’s waist, to keep him upright. “You’ve had a nasty shock, but you’re safe now.”

“That creature – it attacked me!”

“Don’t worry – it’s dead. I killed it.”

The man shuddered. Then shuddered again, as he caught sight of the rotting bones in the alley. “Dear Lord…is that what I think it is?”

Ethan nodded. “What’s left of it.”

As they emerged from the alley, a gust of frigid wind swirled around them, and with it, came the first damp flakes of snow. The stranger blinked, and almost sagged against Ethan. Even in his heavy overcoat, he was trembling from the cold. It must be blood loss, the American thought. 

The two men moved down the street, Ethan supporting the stranger. It was slow going, with both of them plodding through the snow and slush. After awhile, they finally emerged into another neighborhood, this one dismal, filled with abandoned industrial buildings and ancient row houses that had fallen on hard times. He could smell the river – they were near the docks. A few lights glimmered in upstairs windows, but no one was on the street. Little wonder why, Ethan thought cynically. After dark, it was still dangerous to be out and about in London town. He wondered why his companion had been roaming the streets so late at night.

“Where are we going?” the man asked, as they crossed to the other side of the road. His pleasant British accent was raspy with pain. He was limping badly, and Ethan almost had to drag him along.

“I’m taking you to a doctor – he lives nearby.”

The other laughed hoarsely. “A strange neighborhood for a doctor's residence.”

“True, but he’s an excellent physician – and a good friend.”

“I’m also a physician - but obviously in no shape to treat myself.” He laid a hand against the scarf wrapped around his throat, and gingerly felt his wounds. “God only knows what unholy infection I may have picked up from that thing.”

“You didn’t exchange blood with it, did you?”

The man shook his head. “No – Fortunately, it was too busy lapping my blood – and for that matter, too damned greedy – to think to do that.”

“Good,” Ethan replied. “So – you’re a doctor, eh? Is that why you were out tonight?”

"Yes, I was returning home from visiting a patient - her child had came down with influenza, and desperately needed medicine." He suddenly looked stricken. “You didn’t happen to see my medical bag in the alley, did you? I dropped it when I was attacked.”

The American shook his head. “No – but I did retrieve your gun, and have it right here.” He patted his duster pocket.

“Thank you,” the other murmured. “I managed to get my service pistol out, and shot the thing – right in the heart – but didn’t even slow it down. How is that possible?”

“Nosferatu – the un-dead - are immune to regular weapons, although those can inflict pain upon them. Only fire or sunlight, a wooden stake – or in this particular instance, a silver bullet – can destroy them. Although the truly ancient ones seem to be somewhat immune to the sun.”

“Ah – I see.” He shook his head. "We certainly live in peculiar times."

They were headed toward yet another warehouse. Its large glass windows had been boarded over, and there was some sort of machinery or construction jutting from the flat roof. Light glinted faintly through cracks between the wooden boards, and Ethan could see smoke curling from the chimney, dark against the falling snow. As they neared the building, his senses on high alert, he detected a presence - this one decidedly feminine. Why on earth did it feel like Vanessa?

“But where are my manners?” the doctor continued. “I haven’t even thanked you for saving my life. I am, to be sure, most grateful.”

“You’re welcome," Ethan said, and his lips quirked in a faint smile.

“Allow me to introduce myself – Doctor John H. Watson.”

“Ethan Chandler – and – we’re here.”

They stopped before the warehouse, and Ethan pounded on its heavy oak door. The sense of Vanessa was now even stronger, and he felt an irrational surge of hope. What was happening? Impatiently, he knocked again. A moment later, and a startled Victor Frankenstein flung the door open. For the second time that evening, the young scientist was surprised with unexpected visitors upon his doorstep – one obviously gravely wounded. He stared in amazement at the tall American and the other man who drooped at his side, a bloody scarf wound around his neck.

“Well, Victor,” Ethan Chandler drawled. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Obviously Penny Dreadful, and its characters, as well as the characters of classic horror literature and film, belong to their respective creators / writers / networks, etc. I'm just a devoted fan playing in their sandbox, and make no profit, etc.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having rescued Dr. John Watson from a vampire, Ethan Chandler seeks medical aid for the wounded physician from his friend, Victor Frankenstein. It is the Yule season - and the heartbroken American is about to receive an unexpected and miraculous gift - the return of his true love, Vanessa Ives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS: Contains S3 spoilers.
> 
> RATING / WARNINGS: Mature. This chapter of my story contains reference to violence, character death, medical assistance, and a little subtle horror. May possibly be triggering for some.

Victor’s sharp eyes quickly accessed the stranger’s condition, taking in his wan appearance, and what was obviously some sort of neck wound. He had a strong suspicion just what sort of injuries had occurred – and what had likely inflicted them. “Here,” he said, stepping to the other side of Watson and putting an arm around his shoulders. “Warmth is the first order - Let’s get him by the fire, and then I can tend to his wounds.”

The American nodded, and together they assisted Watson over the threshold and into the welcome shelter of the warehouse. The only illumination was the pallid moonlight, which glimmered here and there through gaps in the boarded windows. The wounded doctor stared with some amazement as they passed through Victor’s laboratory, taking in the immense water tank of resurrection, the gurney and its complicated exoskeleton of metal gears and pulleys, and overhead, the great skylight. Other equipment bulked in the shadows, mysterious, and shrouded by tarps. Just what sort of doctor, he wondered, was this exhausted looking young man?

As the three men slowly made their way toward Victor’s personal quarters, the scientist turned his face towards Ethan Chandler. His eyes were full of compassion, and possibly a little fear. “Ethan,” he began in a low voice. “I want to prepare you…”

“Prepare me?” the American asked. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s something I need to tell you…something…rather extraordinary…”

A doorway covered by a frayed old curtain loomed ahead, the amber glow of firelight shining through its thin fabric. The sound of voices could be heard, a man and a woman, talking quietly to each other. Drifting towards Ethan was the same feminine energy pattern he had perceived earlier. Achingly familiar, with a touch of austerity, it possessed a deep wellspring of strength, and an innate tenderness as sweet and intoxicating as the first heady days of spring. The woman suddenly laughed, and Ethan's heart thudded painfully against his ribs.

He _knew_ that husky laugh, and that voice. They were etched indelibly upon his very soul.

“Ethan -” Victor warned.

Ignoring him, the westerner stretched out a trembling hand, and yanked the curtain aside. Desperate with need, pulling his companions along with him, he stooped beneath the low lintel, and entered the chamber. As Victor led John Watson to a wooden stool by the fire, Ethan stood in the doorway, staring at the woman who lay on the threadbare couch, a porcelain mug in her hand. He scarcely noticed the scarred man standing before the hearth. All he could see was the woman – her gleaming indigo eyes, long raven hair falling softly around her delicate face, against a complexion that was flawless, yet strangely pale. By all the saints above, she lived. She lived!

“ _Vanessa_ ,” Ethan breathed. He took a step forward, and despair fled from his heart. His beloved was alive. Why or how, he didn’t care – it was enough that she had returned to him. Their eyes met, and a radiant smile lit Vanessa Ives’ features. Putting aside the mug, she stretched out her arms. With a sob of joy, the tall American rushed to her, and falling to his knees, gathered her close. Murmuring each other’s names over and over, the two embraced, their tears and passionate kisses mingling, melting away all sorrow.

From beside the cozy fire, the others watched this emotional reunion, Dr. Watson with curiosity, the others with delight. After a moment, they all turned away, to give the lovers some privacy.

Victor bent, and carefully unwrapped the muffler from Watson’s neck, and examined his crusted wounds. It was as he’d suspected – they were indeed vampire bites – deep and ragged, as if the monster had been attempting to tear off its victim’s flesh, along with his blood. John Clare peered over Victor’s shoulder, and frowned. Turning to the cabinet by the hearth, he rummaged in its depths, retrieving two pottery bowls and a pile of clean, neatly folded rags. Taking the iron kettle off the hob, he poured hot water into each bowl. Dipping one of the rags into the largest bowl, he cleaned his hands with the damp cloth, then handed the bowl to Victor, setting the other on the floor by their patient. Victor nodded, briefly immersing his hands in the scalding water to sterilize them, before taking the fresh rag that John offered.

"I'm usually the one tending to wounds and illnesses," Watson said, with a wry chuckle. "It's interesting to be the patient for a change. I know I'm in good hands." He sagged against the wall, grateful for the warmth of the fire, and the attentions of an obviously skilled physician and his able assistant. As Victor gently cleansed his wounds, he closed his eyes in utter exhaustion. Somehow he’d have to get word to Holmes that he was safe. He knew his friend would be very worried that he hadn’t come home. 

Victor glanced up, and flashed a smile at John Clare. Returning the smile, John handed him another rag. The two of them made an excellent team, working together with a close intuitive bond. Perhaps he would find a way to attend medical school, and become a physician himself. Saving lives was a habit that he could get used to. John's eyes grew moist, and a feeling of deep peace, contentment, and love enveloped him. He too, had at last come home. While he knew that danger still lurked in London – and that somehow Dracula and his minions must be stopped – for now, he would simply savor the joy and wonder of this moment, and of this truly miraculous night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Obviously Penny Dreadful, and its characters, as well as the characters of classic horror literature and film, belong to their respective creators / writers / networks, etc. I'm just a devoted fan playing in their sandbox, and make no profit, etc.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dr. Watson fails to return home to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes goes in search of his missing friend. Elsewhere, Sir Malcolm Murray and Kaetenay share their fears that Dracula may have fled London - and an ancient evil stirs, aroused by the return of Vanesa Ives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS: Contains S3 spoilers.
> 
> RATING / WARNINGS: Mature. This chapter of my story contains some horror / gore, and also alludes to death, violence, and thoughts of suicide. Written in a subtle manner, but may possibly be triggering for some. There's also a bit of strong language.

The tall Englishman paced nervously back and forth before the fire. Every so often, he glanced up at the clock on the mantle, his piercing hazel eyes filled with concern. It was well after midnight. Where was Watson? He should have been home long before now. Mrs. Abernathy and her little daughter lived only a street over, it should have been but the work of a moment to take the vital medicine to their flat, and then return to Baker Street. While Watson had taken the precaution of bringing his service pistol along, the detective knew there were creatures still roaming London that required more than a simple bullet to dispatch. He sighed, and stared once more at the clock. If only the doctor had not insisted on going alone. Damnation! Somehow he knew that Watson was in peril. There was nothing for it, but to go in search of his friend.

Sherlock Holmes threw his greatcoat on, and wrapping the muffler that Watson had given him last Christmas around his neck, drew on a pair of heavy leather gloves. As he jammed his black Trilby hat onto his head, he contemplated which weapon to take. After a moment, he reached out and plucked an ebony walking stick from the umbrella stand. An antique, dating to the early eighteenth century, it had a grip fashioned of tarnished bronze in the shape of a raven’s head. With a flourish, Holmes pulled a slender blade from the cane’s bottom section. Made of the finest Toledo steel, inlaid entirely with pure silver, the rapier gleamed in the firelight, its point honed to deadly perfection. He smiled coldly. Yes, this would do quite nicely.

Quietly, the detective let himself out of 221B. As he stepped onto the pavement, the cold seemed to penetrate his very bones, blasting relentlessly through his clothing, and seeping through the thick soles of his boots. With grim determination, Holmes strode down the street, the icy wind lifting the tails of his coat like great sable wings, until he seemed to be a bird of prey, lean and shadowy against the falling snow.

*****

It was late, but Sir Malcolm Murray knew that Kaetenay was still awake. He wondered if the Apache shaman had been successful in locating the whereabouts of Dracula. Knocking on the closed door of his friend’s room, Sir Malcolm waited.

“Come in,” Kaetenay called.

The Englishman pushed the door open, and stepped inside. Kaetenay was seated at the cherry-wood escritoire, upon which he had spread his ritual tools. The chamber was shadowy and rather cold, as the shaman had allowed the fire to die down. The only light came from a single beeswax candle he had left burning on the carved oak mantle.

“Any luck?” Sir Malcolm asked.

Wearily, the other glanced up and shook his head. “He is well and truly hidden, Malcolm. So far, he has eluded me. But I discovered that some of his minions have survived." 

“I feared as much. With Dracula and his followers roaming free, the entire city is still in danger. We must destroy him, and soon.”

"The sooner the better," Kaetenay agreed. "Once their master dies, the others will also perish. Their unnatural life is dependent on him." He rubbed his eyes, and with a sigh, turned his head from side to side, trying to work the kinks out of his neck. “I’ve tried everything, but Dracula’s energy pattern seems to have disappeared. It’s peculiar, because night is when his presence should be strongest.”

Sir Malcolm crossed to the mantle. Pensively, he stared down into the cold embers of the fire. “I don’t know what to tell Ethan.” His eyes flickered to Kaetenay. “Perhaps, with Vanessa dead and out of his reach, the vampire has abandoned his plans, and fled to a new territory.”

“Perhaps.” The shaman looked doubtful. “As for Ethan….” His voice trailed off.

“I fear for the lad. Earlier this evening, I found him in the garden. He had his revolver in hand. It took all my powers of persuasion to get him to abandon his plan of suicide.”

“That is bad, very bad.” Kaetenay pursed his lips. “Where is he now?”

“In his room,” Sir Malcolm replied. “And hopefully asleep. I am reluctant to tell him that we have not found Dracula. I don’t think he will take the news well.”

“No, I suspect he won’t. But he will have to be told.” Kaetenay sighed again, and with a few deft motions, swept his divination tools into their suede pouch. “There’s nothing more I can do tonight – I will try again in the morning.”

Sir Malcolm nodded. “Get some rest, old friend. And I will do the same. Tomorrow, we’ll sit down with Ethan, and work out a new plan. Perhaps the lad may have some special insight we might have missed.” He paused, and then added softly, “At least I hope he will.”

“I pray that it is so.” Kaetenay rose and moved to Sir Malcolm’s side. His dark brown eyes compassionate, he gripped the other man's shoulder. “Ethan will be all right. He is stronger than he knows – and his sense of justice is even stronger. As is his devotion to Vanessa Ives. He is not called the Wolf of God lightly. Together, the three of us will find the vampire, and finally put an end to him.”

*****

With unerring instinct, Holmes drew his swordstick, and crept noiselessly into the alley. The moon wandered out from behind a cloud, its pallid light piercing the darkness, and illuminating a trail of blood mashed into the snow. The detective’s lips tightened. Slowly he inched forward, following the tell tale scarlet, and soon reached the back of the dead end alley. A wooden door bisected one wall. Holmes reached out and rattled the knob, but the door was securely locked and bolted. The alley was empty. All was silent, save for the wind howling over the rooftops. Frantically, Holmes searched the ground for clues. The cobbles were covered in slush, and there were several pairs of blurred footprints, as if there had been a struggle. And then he saw it, dark against the snow - a familiar leather medical bag. Nearby was Watson’s bowler - and more blood.

Beyond, lay a jumbled mass of yellowed bones. They were half hidden by the rotted remnants of a once fine velvet suit and embroidered silk shirt. An emerald cufflink glittered on one of the shirt’s filthy cuffs. Holmes stood over what was left of the vampire, and frowned. The thing’s skull grinned up at him, its incisors unnaturally long, and covered with dried blood. He leaned down and looked closer. There were two ragged holes in its suit – right where the heart would have been, had the creature been alive. Still frowning, Holmes circled the bones, searching for the projectiles he knew had killed it. After a few moments, he found them, half sunken in the bloody snow. He picked the bullets up, his expression tense as he examined them. One was ordinary lead – but the other was blackened silver. With a sigh, he slipped them into his coat pocket.

Stepping away from the grisly remains, the detective sheathed his rapier, and bent to retrieve the hat. There was blood on the brim. With a stifled oath, he crushed the hat in his hands. They had taken him – But where? Shaking his head, he turned to depart, then stopped. He would not leave Watson’s precious medical bag behind. Almost reverently, he picked up the satchel. For a long moment, he just stared at it, thinking of his kindly friend, the most gallant man he had ever known. Finally, he opened the bag and thrust the ruined bowler into its depths.

As Holmes exited the alley, his keen eyes spotted two pairs of footprints meandering through the snow, heading away into the darkness. He could tell from the unevenness of the prints that one man was taller, and that he appeared to be supporting his companion, also male. Hope surged. The footprints led away into the rougher parts of the city. He must move quickly, before the snowfall completely erased the trail. The detective started to follow, praying that when he reached the end, he would find Watson still alive.

*****

The house had once been splendid. Built by a wealthy merchant during the reign of the second Charles, it stood, long abandoned, on the banks of the Thames. Below its crumbling ramparts, the river flowed silently, glittering like jet against the drifting snow. Deep within the house’s stone cellar, buried beneath the earth, someone stirred. A pale elegant hand thrust its way up through mounds of ancient dirt and debris, straining towards the moonlight that shone through a small arched window. In moments, a man’s head appeared, soon followed by his nude body. The soil fell from his tall, lithe form like streaming water. Eyes snapped open, glowing with unholy fire in an arrogant face that was lean and handsome as a tiger, and just as feral. His bearded lips parted in a triumphant smile, canine teeth gleaming in sharp points.

“My Scorpion Queen -" His voice was deep, raspy with desire. “You shall not escape me this time.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gunfighter Ethan Chandler and John Clare discover they share a mutual goal - to protect Vanessa Ives from the menace of Dracula, no matter what the cost.
> 
> And on this bitterly cold night, Vanessa and Ethan, finally reunited, consummate their love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS: Contains S3 spoilers.
> 
> RATING / WARNINGS: Mature. This chapter of my story contains consensual romance / sex / lovemaking . There are also references to violence, character death, and vengeance, with some very subtle horror / gore and brief reference to past abuse / torture - These may possibly be triggering for some. There's also a bit of strong language.

Vanessa had drifted off to sleep again. The resurrection process had drained much of her energy, and she still looked very wan, but Victor had assured Ethan that she was doing well, and that her slumber was recuperative, and perfectly natural. The American thought he could even detect a bit of rosy color finally blooming in her pale cheeks. Her chest rose and fell in a peaceful rhythm, and her hand still rested trustingly in his large one. Somehow Victor’s science had transcended death, and returned her to the land of the living. For that, he was profoundly grateful. Gently, he brushed a strand of dark hair from her face. 

“I will protect you this time,” he vowed softly. “Even if it costs me my life. For what is life, if you're not here to share it with me?”

“Never fear - we will all help to protect her,” a voice said from behind him. It was a beautiful voice, low and rather velvety.

The westerner turned and stared into the golden eyes of the scarred man, who had earlier introduced himself as John Clare. He was seated beside the fire, a small leather-bound book in his hands. Ethan couldn’t make out the title. There were just the three of them in the room, as Victor had finally gone to bed, and Dr. Watson, exhausted after his ordeal with the vampire, was dozing fitfully on a spare cot in another alcove.

“I owe you a great debt,” Ethan said. “Victor told me that it was you who brought Vanessa to him – that despite what had happened, you still believed in hope. I can never thank you enough – should you ever need my help, I’m at your service.”

The other man nodded. “I was without hope for a very long time – but it was Vanessa who taught me that hope is worth having – and fighting for. When I was all but damned, it was she who saved my soul, and gave me back my humanity.” He gazed into the fire, for a moment absorbed in visions only he could see. “Years ago, we were friends – at a time of great suffering and adversity for her. To my lasting shame and regret, there was little I could do at the time to help her.” His glance shifted to Ethan. “It would seem in that respect, the two of us are much alike. I would also give my life for Vanessa Ives.” He laughed ruefully. “And it may yet come to that.”

Ethan smiled crookedly. “You’re right – it may.” He kissed Vanessa’s hand, and carefully untwined his fingers from hers. With one swift motion, he drew his Colt from its holster. He laid the weapon on his knee, and stared thoughtfully at it. Gleaming in the firelight, it was a thing of deadly beauty. “But this time I’m ready for the bastard.”

“Can mere bullets destroy such a monster?”

“These can,” Ethan declared. “They’re made of pure silver – no vampire can survive that. Not even him.”

One of John’s brows rose. “I take it you have proof?”

“Yeah – I shot the one that attacked Watson. It died, and in moments, was just a pile of bones. But you have to aim for the brain or the heart.”

“Interesting – I’ll keep that in mind. I have heard of other methods, of course.”

“There are several, including beheading. They also fear religious relics - and garlic. Those won’t kill them, but do keep them at bay.” The American’s expression tightened, as he thought of another method. But that required a full moon, and was liable to be just as dangerous to innocent by-standers, as it was to a vampire. “If Dracula becomes aware that Vanessa’s alive, he’ll come for her. It’s best she stays here. This neighborhood is obscure, and out of the way, unlike Sir Malcolm’s. I think every damn supernatural creature in London, at one time or another, has paid a visit to his house.”

“A sound plan,” John Clare agreed, and yawned. He’d been up for hours, and was also exhausted by nervous strain. It had been a long, and very emotional night.

“Get some sleep, John,” Ethan said. “I’ll take this watch.”

“Very well,” the other replied. “If you need me, I’ll be in the storeroom. There’s extra blankets, and another cot there that I can use.” Tucking the book beneath his arm, he rose, and crossed to the doorway. Pulling aside the curtain to leave, he gave Ethan a weary smile, and wished him goodnight.

*****

Ethan stretched out on the floor, his back against the sofa, his gun still resting comfortably on his knee. The only sound was the pop of the fire, and Vanessa’s quiet breathing. He turned his head, and gazed at his beloved. Her face in slumber looked so young and vulnerable, her skin limned golden by the firelight. His heart melted. Suddenly, her eyes fluttered open. “Hello,” she whispered huskily. “I thought I had dreamed you.”

“No dream – I’m here, and not going anywhere.”

“How did you find me?”

“After I rescued Watson, I knew I had to get him to a doctor, and fast. The closest one that I knew of was Victor. But as I came nearer to this place, I started to perceive an energy pattern. I couldn’t understand why it felt so familiar, but deep down, I knew somehow, that it was you.”

“How is that possible?”

“It’s my wolf sense,” Ethan explained. “And our bond.” His dark eyes shone. “Wolves mate for life, you know.”

“Yes – I know.” She stretched out her hand to caress his face. “ _My_ wolf – my Lupus Dei.”

Setting down his revolver, and murmuring her name, Ethan took her in his arms, and kissed her. Velvety as a rose, her lips opened to his. She tasted faintly of honey and tea, of life and love, and the delicious warmth of summer. He couldn’t get enough of her, his wild lovely Vanessa. Raining kisses across her cheekbones, and along the delicate curve of her jawline, he leisurely worked his way back up, and kissed her once again on the mouth.

Vanessa closed her eyes in ecstasy. She could feel the beating of his heart against hers, steady and reliable - like the beat of great wings. As they kissed, a vision suddenly blossomed behind her closed eyelids, one of the distant memories she had brought back from her visit to the other side. She saw Ethan, as he had once been, in that first life of theirs, millennia ago. Inhumanly beautiful, he stood on the marble steps of paradise, the Wolf of God, his hands resting on the hilt of a sword. Far taller than any human being, his enormous wings glowed in the darkness, bright as the sun. She saw his look of anguish, as profane hands ripped her from his side, plunging her into exile, and the vast reaches of space. With a fierce cry, he flung himself after her - Her warrior angel, who had turned his back on Heaven, for love of her. 

“Ethan," she sighed. Her eyes opened, and she stared longingly at him. He was still beautiful, but it was the beauty of a mortal man. They had loved each other through endless lifetimes, stretching all the way back to the dawn of creation. Always they had found each other, although they had often been torn apart. And in this lifetime, due to her heartbreak and self-doubt, it had happened again. But she had been given a second chance, and she would not waste it. "I love you, Ethan Chandler."

“And I love you,” he answered simply. "So damn much, and I always will. Vanessa - Will you marry me?”

"Yes," she whispered. "Oh, yes!" Throwing her arms around him, she laid her head on his broad shoulder, and started to cry.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

“Nothing.” Wiping away a tear, she smiled tremulously. “I’m just happy.” 

“Me too.” Ethan grinned, and his arms tightened around the woman he adored. The woman he had thought, in this life, to never see again. He would fight to the last breath to protect her. 

“Make love to me, Ethan,” Vanessa implored. 

Though he ached for her, Ethan paused, and took a deep, steadying breath. She still looked so fragile, he was afraid he might accidentally injure her. “Are you sure?” 

Her eyes met his, and she smiled. “Yes – I've never been more sure of anything in my life.”

*****

Their lovemaking, while deeply passionate, had of necessity been on the quiet side, due to close quarters and a certain lack of privacy. But for the first time in her life, Vanessa found herself immune to the effects of demonic possession she'd previously suffered during sex. With Ethan she felt completely safe, his love and utter devotion carrying her to dizzying heights she had never before reached. Mindful of her stitches, he was careful, so as to avoid causing her any discomfort. He entered her with slow, deep strokes, and powerful erotic sensations soon suffused her entire body. She arched her back, and frantically moved her pelvis in sync with his thrusts, the two of them moaning softly as he poured his seed into her, their mutual climax shattering in its intensity.

Afterwards, sated and content, they relaxed before the hearth, entwined in each other's arms. Too tall to comfortably fit on the divan, Ethan had created a makeshift bed for them on the floor, with blankets he had found in the cupboard. Their nude forms glistened, shadowy in the warm glow of the fire. He caressed her back, feeling the raised brand that years ago had been burnt into her skin. His mouth tightened as he thought of the dissolute aristocrat who had dared put the mark of the scorpion upon her. When he had learned of the torture of his beloved, Ethan had been enraged, and had vowed to kill him. Just as he raised his Colt to put a bullet in his head, Vanessa had destroyed her enemy from afar, using an ancient spell of demonic origin. Shocked by her sudden descent into darkness, it had been the cause of their first fight. He realized now that it had not been his right to judge her, especially as he had done far worse. But they had survived that ordeal, as they had survived so much else. Thrusting the unhappy memory from his mind, he gazed at the tiny stitches that ran between Vanessa’s breasts, and along the front center of her torso, ending an inch or two above her navel - the signs of her resurrection. She had told him that it would be awhile before the stitching could be removed, but that, all things considered, she felt remarkably well. Even so, the flesh around the delicate lines of black thread was red and swollen, and sore to the touch. When they were making love, he had been careful not to press hard against them.

With a wry little smile, Vanessa glanced down at herself. “They’re not very pretty, are they? Victor warned me there would probably be some scarring.” She ran a finger experimentally along one of the stitch lines, and winced. 

“Careful, darlin’,” Ethan cautioned, and kissed the top of her shoulder. “And your scars are beautiful, just like the rest of you.” After all – they were part of the miraculous process that had returned her to life. How could they be anything but beautiful? But it would be good when she finally healed, and the stitches were removed. Vanessa would feel more comfortable, and the two of them could be more abandoned in their lovemaking. Until then, they would continue to be cautious. Noticing her sudden shiver, he pulled the blankets over them. “Better?”

She nodded, and snuggled gratefully down into their depths. He wrapped his arms around her, and very gently, held her close, sharing the heat of his powerful body with hers. She peered up at him. “It was odd, though. For just a moment, I thought I felt the touch of an icy hand against my throat."

Ethan frowned, and his glance flickered to his Colt, which lay within easy reach. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Perhaps it’s just my imagination.”

“Maybe.” He kissed the top of her head, her hair soft against his lips. “You know, we need to get you a proper ring, since it’s now official. What sort would you like?”

“Can we afford it?” she asked, with her usual practicality.

“Oh yes – we can definitely afford it,” he assured her. “I have some money saved up from my time with the wild-west show.”

She thought for a moment. “I think I’d like an emerald. Green represents life, and I want to embrace life. I’ll never take it for granted again.”

“An emerald it is then - It will be my Christmas present to you. When you feel up to it, we’ll visit a jewelry store.”

“But what shall I get you? I forgot that it was Christmas.”

“Well, you have had other things on your mind,” Ethan commented dryly. “Besides, you’ve already given me the best Christmas gift of all.”

“I have?”

He grinned. “ _You_ – I don’t need anything else.”

Vanessa laughed delightedly, and the sound of her laughter was balm to his wounded soul. They lay together for several blissful moments, and then Ethan finally stirred. “Much as I hate to say this, I have to get up and get dressed, otherwise I’ll fall asleep – and that won’t do. I need to stay alert, and on watch. Dracula is still at large, and we can’t take any chances.”

“You’re right, of course - although, I wish we could just fall asleep together. It’s comfortable here in our little nest on the floor.” Reluctantly, she reached for Victor’s nightshirt, which lay crumpled nearby, and pulled it over her head. Retrieving the blue shawl from the floor, she wrapped it around her, watching with interest as her muscular fiancé stood, and fished around for his clothing.

"Do you want to stay here in front of the fire, or would you prefer the sofa?" he asked, as he shrugged into his duster.

Vanessa leaned back on one elbow. "I'll stay here, it's warmer - and the view is much, much nicer." She smiled mischievously at him, then yawned, suddenly exhausted.

“Try to get some rest, sweetheart - I’ll keep watch, and later John Clare will spell me."

"Ethan..." she began, her expression suddenly serious. "It's inevitable that Dracula will eventually find me - but when he does, he'll discover that things are different - much different. The darkness no longer holds an attraction for me. And I'm no longer an easy prey whose insecurities can be manipulated and exploited." For a long moment, she was silent, remembering. "When I - died - and my spirit crossed to the other side, I found myself in a long mirrored hall that seemed to stretch into infinity. In the closest mirror, I saw my life as Vanessa. Then I was suddenly being pulled down the hallway by some invisible force. As the other mirrors flashed by me, I caught glimpses of my previous lives, all the way back to the beginning. And the truths I saw irrevocably changed me." Her voice was hoarse with unshed tears. "I was wrong to surrender to Dracula's evil - I should have fought him to my last breath. Even worse, instead of trusting in us, and our bond, I forced you to take my life, believing that death was the only way to escape the vampire's thrall. I won't make that mistake again. This time, we stand and fight him together." Her hand shot out and gripped his. "Can you ever forgive me?"

His gaze unwavering, he brought her hand to his lips, and kissed it."There's nothing to forgive. You live, and we're together - that's what matters. And I promise you, we _will_ destroy him." 

"My brave Wolf," she said softly, and smiled. In the gilded light of the fire, her otherworldly beauty reminded Ethan of a Renaissance angel. Yawning, she stretched out on her side. "I can hardly keep my eyes open." Tenderly, he pulled the covers up to her chin, and in moments, she was fast asleep. Despite the fire, the room had grown steadily colder. He drew his revolver, and settled down to wait. Perhaps Dracula was even now searching for her. Certainly, Vanessa had felt something – and he could sense it now too. Ancient and filled with a terrible brooding jealousy, it prowled, watching from the frigid darkness of the night. Let the vampire come, Ethan thought, he'll find me ready and waiting.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sir Malcolm Murray and Kaetenay discover that Ethan Chandler has disappeared. Elsewhere: Sherlock Holmes faces danger, and Vanessa Ives, still recovering from the ordeal of her resurrection, is once again under attack. When Ethan and their friends rally to protect her, Vanessa vows to stand and fight by the side of the man she loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS: Contains S3 spoilers.
> 
> RATING / WARNINGS: This story is mature. In this chapter, there are references to violence, suicide, and potential death, with angst and some horror. May possibly be triggering for some. There's also a little strong language.

Sir Malcolm, deep in thought, walked slowly towards his room at the end of the hall. Without Vanessa, the house seemed an empty husk, as if it had lost its soul. The gaslights had been turned low, and the long corridor was dark and rather forbidding. Demonic faces seemed to lurk in the wallpaper, scowling at him from a stylized pattern of leaves and agapanthus lilies. He paused as he came to Ethan’s closed door. He thought of earlier – when he had stood in the garden, and pleaded with the American to relinquish his gun. Ethan had turned his face towards him, the depth of grief and utter despair in his dark eyes heartbreaking to see. Perhaps he should check on the lad, and make sure that he was all right. He knocked lightly on the door, but all was silent. Ethan must have finally fallen asleep. 

As he started to move away, Sir Malcolm stopped. He didn’t know how he knew – but something just didn’t feel right. He turned back to the door, and quietly pushed it open. Stepping into the room, he shivered in the sudden chill. The window stood wide ajar, and by the pallid moonlight, he saw a sprinkling of snow on the windowsill and carpet. Ethan was gone. The Englishman leaned out the window, and stared down into the back garden. There were footprints in the snow, leading to the wrought iron gate that opened onto the street.

Sir Malcolm sighed, and grimly strode back to Kaetenay’s chamber. He flung the door wide, and stood in the doorway. The shaman glanced up from where he lay on the bed, and set down the book he had been reading. “What is wrong, Malcolm?”

“It’s Ethan – he’s gone after Dracula on his own.”

The other man swung his legs over the bed. Except for his boots, he was still fully dressed. His overcoat hung on a metal hook on the wall, and his weapons and medicine pouch lay on the nearby nightstand. He pulled on his boots, and reaching for his gun belt, buckled it around his waist. “Then there’s no time to lose.” 

“How will we find him?” Sir Malcolm asked.

“We share the bond of the wolf – and he is like my own son. Rest assured, I _will_ find him.” His lips thinned, and he picked up his sheathed knife, strapping it to his lower left leg, beneath his trousers. He thrust the medicine bag’s narrow strap over his head, and then stuffed the pouch beneath his shirt. “You better bring your pistol,” he added, as he pulled on his coat. “And be sure to load it with the silver bullets Ethan made for us.”

*****

Trying to ignore the icy wind sweeping around his ears, Holmes doggedly followed the trail of footprints through the deserted streets. The neighborhoods he passed through had gradually deteriorated, neat terrace homes and shops giving way to ancient buildings with blistered paint and shattered brickwork, their roofs sagging. Here and there, garbage and bits of broken furniture and other debris littered the sides of the road, half buried by snow. While no one seemed to be about, he had been aware for quite some time of being followed. He paused for a moment, bending and pretending to tie a shoelace, while taking the opportunity to surreptitiously glance behind him. Several feet back, he could make out two veiled shapes, ghost-like in the falling snow. They crept quietly along the edges of the street, staying in the shadows, intent on being as inconspicuous as possible, and maintaining distance between themselves and the detective. Tightening his grip around the handle of his swordstick, he resumed walking, forcing himself to not look back at his mysterious trackers, who kept pace with him. Eventually he reached the river. There were several warehouses abutting a long concrete quay scattered with cranes and other equipment. Beyond, was the flash of dark water. A small ship was anchored nearby, rocking gently on the swells. 

Holmes glanced down. The footprints, which showed the larger man now dragging the other along, led to an old warehouse that stood on the corner. Someone was obviously home - he could see smoke eddying from the chimney, and the faint glimmer of lights. As he started towards it, he suddenly stopped. Malicious laughter came faintly from the shadowy doorway of a decaying building that faced the warehouse. Perhaps some poor devil was attempting to seek shelter from the cold - or perhaps not. Danger lurked both before and behind him. Silently, he set down Watson’s satchel, and drew his rapier. 

*****

Ethan quickly stood, Colt in hand. He could feel malevolent energy probing at the edges of the warehouse, as if seeking entry. From her place before the fire, Vanessa stirred, awakened by the same sixth sense. Still groggy with sleep, she pushed her long hair from her face. “Ethan – something’s wrong.”

“Stay here,” he replied. “I’ll be back soon.” Striding to the curtained doorway, he quietly made his way through the warehouse, and stopped before the boarded up windows. He put his eye to the crack between one of the wooden slats, and stared out into the darkness. He could just make out a man standing in the road. The man’s posture was tense, and he was holding something in his hand - a weapon of some sort? Whoever he was, he was not alone. There were others hiding nearby. He could sense a mixture of energy, some human, and the rest with an energy pattern that felt horribly familiar.

“Who’s out there?” came Vanessa’s soft voice from close behind him. She had followed him into the laboratory. Visibly shivering in the cold, her breath misted in front of her face. She pulled the shawl closer around her. Even though she wore wool stockings and a too big pair of shoes that Victor had lent her, she could still feel the iciness of the floor, penetrating through the thick leather soles. “It’s freezing in here.”

“We have visitors.”

“Visitors?”

“Some are human, but whether friend or foe is hard to say. The rest are vampires,” he replied grimly. “You best wake the others. I’m going outside to reconnoiter.”

He stepped aside, and Vanessa peered out the window. Partly obscured by the swirling snowflakes, she could see the man, who was now facing the row of dilapidated houses that stood across the street. She turned to Ethan. Her expression, as she stared up into his eyes, was fiercely determined. She dug her fingers into his arm. “Give me a weapon – This time we face them together.”

A slow admiring smile touched Ethan’s lips. “You were ever a fighter,” he said, and reaching into his coat pocket, drew out Watson’s pistol, and a handful of loose bullets. Pure silver, they glittered faintly in the moonlight. “Lead bullets are useless against these creatures. Only silver can kill them - Take these, and load the gun. And aim for the head or heart.” He pressed them into her hand, wrapping her fingers around the cold metal. “You’re a good shot – make each one count. I'll return as soon as I can.”

"Ethan," she pleaded. "How can you ask me to stay here, while you face them alone? What if they kill you?"

"I won't lie to you - It's dangerous as hell. We don’t know how many are out there, and in the open, they’ll have the advantage. But I can more easily maneuver on my own, and I plan to take every precaution. Besides, what if they seize you? " He paused, searching for the right words. "It's just too risky. I lost you once, Vanessa – I can't lose you again. Please - try to understand."

From outside came the sound of screaming. It was shrill, with a harsh metallic edge that was decidedly inhuman.

“Do you think Dracula is out there?” Vanessa asked, repressing a shudder.

“Oh, he’s definitely watching. But I don’t know if he has the guts to do his own dirty work, or is just relying on his shock troops to first soften us up.”

John Clare and Victor, awakened by the unholy din, entered the room. In John’s hand was the same small book that Ethan had glimpsed earlier. His golden eyes were strangely calm. “So – they have found us?”

“I’m afraid so,” Ethan answered. “Lock and barricade the door after I go out. Then gather any weapons that you have at hand. You probably don’t have any silver bullets available, but if you scratch a cross on everything, that ought to help.”

Moving to the window, Victor stared through a gap in the boards. The snowfall was getting thicker, and it was difficult to see anything. “I remember what those creatures are like,” he said. “Especially in a pack. They’re fast and incredibly dangerous. Infectious too. John or I should go with you.” 

“He's right," John agreed. "Take one of us along - the other can stay here to protect Vanessa and Dr. Watson. Wounded as badly as he is, he's in no condition for a fight.”

The American was touched, grateful for the loyalty and friendship of such men. “I appreciate that – I really do. But I find I work best alone.” For once, he thought longingly of the full moon. But this time, he would have to rely solely on his own human cunning and abilities.

“Ethan – for God’s sake, listen to them,” Vanessa put in. Like her companions, she instinctively whispered, but her tone was tinged with fear. Fear for him. She shivered again. If anything it was getting colder. She could feel the foul energy that was seeping through the walls of their shelter, frigid as death, and seeking for her.

“This is madness,” Victor interjected. Shaking his head, he turned to Vanessa. “As your physician, I concur that you should stay here. It’s only been a few hours since your resurrection, and you’ve not yet recovered your full strength. It’s also bitterly cold outside. In those thin garments, you’d freeze to death.” His eyes sought Ethan’s. “If you won’t accept our help, then damn it all, be careful.”

Ethan's mouth quirked. "I'll certainly do my best." More screaming came from the darkness, and he tensed. He hated to leave Vanessa, but had delayed long enough. “If I fail - they’ll come for you. They’ll come for all of you. If that time arrives, don’t worry about me. Just be prepared to flee or fight for your life.”

The revolver and bullets felt heavy in her hand. "All right," she promised. Although if anything happened to Ethan, she would not rest until she had avenged him. She sighed. Brave and chivalrous to a fault, her beloved was also damnably stubborn. But she couldn't help but admire his wolfish tenacity.

Gently, John Clare laid a comforting hand on Vanessa’s shoulder. “I know it's difficult, but what they say makes sense. In here, we do have some advantage, no matter how slight.”

“I own a pistol, and my father’s old cavalry sabre and hunting rifle are somewhere about,” Victor muttered. “I’ll fetch them, and go check on Dr. Watson.”

“I’ll be along in a minute,” John promised. “After I barricade the door. And we’ll need a couple of your scalpels, so we can carve crosses into the bullets and sword blade. We don’t have time to melt down silver, and make bullets out of that.”

Victor snorted. “As if I had any silver - I pawned that long ago. The only items of value I’ve retained are my surgical instruments, but they’re made of steel. Anything else here that’s metal is made of iron or pewter. Useful to be sure, but not for vampire hunting.”

As the scientist moved off into the depths of the warehouse, John busied himself with gathering items for the barricade. There were some oak barrels in the far corner, along with a bureau and large wingback chair that he could wedge against the front door. He wasn’t sure how well this would actually work with keeping the vampires at bay, but it was worth a chance. When he was done here, he'd check the back entrance, and make sure it was securely locked. Probably best, though, not to barricade it, as they just might need to make a hasty retreat.

Ethan turned to Vanessa. For a heartbeat, he gazed at her, as if memorizing each feature, then tenderly caressed her cheek. She started to weep, and laid her head against his hand. His voice was pitched low, meant only for her ears. “I love you, sweetheart." He held her close for a moment.

Tears trailing down her face, she stared up at him. "And I love you. But don't you dare get yourself killed. Promise me, Ethan." 

"I promise," he murmured, and bending his head, kissed her on the lips.

“I can’t lose you,” Vanessa whispered brokenly, watching the man she loved walk away. The sound of the heavy door shutting after him reminded her of the final closure of a tomb. In the distance, she could hear the vampires shrieking. And weaving through it all, like a thread of bloodied silk, was a familiar and hated voice. Only she heard it - calling her name in a tone that was at first cajoling, then increasingly brutal and demanding. There was no damned way she'd let Ethan face that alone. Gritting her teeth, she emptied the gun of its ordinary bullets, and with shaking fingers, began to load it with silver.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ethan Chandler and Sherlock Holmes are under attack. As Vanessa Ives rushes to her beloved's aid, Dracula continues his deadly psychic assault - But she is not alone. An unlikely band of allies join forces, determined to defeat the vampire lord's infernal horde.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILERS: Contains S3 spoilers.
> 
> RATING / WARNINGS: Mature - For 18+ only. This chapter contains horror / gore + battle scenes, graphic depictions of violence, and death. May be triggering for some. There's also some strong language.

Screams erupted from the doorway, along with a burst of deranged laughter. For a moment, all was silent. Then came another blood-curdling scream, and a group of dark forms rushed at Holmes from the doorway, fanged mouths gaping wide. He slashed at the nearest vampire, and it shrieked, as the silver of the enhanced blade sizzled against its undead flesh. He spun, and his weapon bit deeply into another creature’s arm, almost severing the limb from its body. The thing clutched at its arm, and moaning, collapsed into the snow.

The third vampire, this one female, its long brown hair hanging like moss around its ashen face, sprang forward, and with a snarl, knocked the rapier from Holmes’ hand. As he tried desperately to reach his fallen weapon, she grabbed his shoulder, and with inhuman strength, pulled him towards her maw. A shot suddenly rang out from behind him, and like a stone, the vampire dropped. Ichor ran from a singed hole in the center of her forehead. Her jaw sagged open, displaying yellowed fangs. The flesh of her face started to blister and crack, sloughing off in ragged strips. In moments, all that was left were bones, and the blood stained taffeta of her gown. 

More shots, this time from a different direction, and another nosferatu fell. Two men darted forward from the shadows, both armed with revolvers. The taller took aim and fired. Another vampire spun away, sent flying from the impact. But Holmes had no time to thank his rescuers. Swiftly, he retrieved his sword, and turned towards the other creatures. The one with the half-severed arm, clearly in pain, screeched and kept back, its features twisted in a rictus of hate. Another rushed towards Holmes, and as he raised his sword to strike, its wounded brethren started to circle around, hoping to attack the detective’s exposed back.

“Watch out!” a voice yelled. Holmes jumped aside as lethal claws swept towards his head, and then pivoted away as two vampires simultaneously reached for him. He parried their attack with his rapier, its tip piercing the nearest one’s hand. It howled with rage and pain, eyes glowing red. The other stepped over the remains of the dead female, and lunged, its damaged arm hanging uselessly at its side, the exposed skin of its shoulder blackening from the silver. Out of the corner of his eye, the detective glimpsed a tall man standing in front of the warehouse, his long coat floating around him like shadowy wings. It was too dark to make out his face. As the vampires circled Holmes, the stranger raised his gun, and carefully took aim. The weapon roared, smoke billowing into the frigid sky. The vampire with the half-severed arm crumpled, shot clean through the heart.

Another shriek, and more nosferatu poured from one of the derelict houses, a grotesque horde straight from nightmare. Despite their emaciated appearance, the creatures moved with frightening speed, their attention focused on the tall stranger. Holmes could see muzzle flash in the darkness, as the man fired his weapon again and again. Vampires screamed as they were struck, the bullets tearing into their undead flesh, and propelling them backwards into the snow. But more kept coming.

*****

“Ethan is under attack!” Vanessa yelled over her shoulder, as she attempted to push aside the bureau that John Clare had lodged before the warehouse’s front door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her friends rush towards the boarded up windows, weapons in hand. Behind them was Dr. Watson with Victor's rifle. Obviously in pain, and limping badly, his soldier's instincts were nevertheless in full play. With ruthless efficiency, the doctor used the butt of the rifle stock to break through one of the boards and the windowpane beneath. He slid the barrel of the weapon through the broken glass, and taking careful aim, squeezed off a few rounds. The noise was deafening. Beside him, Victor smashed another window, and began firing his pistol. Acrid smoke eddied around the two men as they kept up a steady barrage, only pausing now and then to reload. But how long would the ammunition last?

Outside, Vanessa could hear more screaming. Desperately, she peered through the gap between two of the boards. The snowfall had grown heavier, and the wind had risen. She could just make out a mass of figures scurrying here and there in the darkness, and hear the sharp retort of gunshots. It sounded like more than one weapon being fired. Besides Ethan and the stranger, were there other humans also under attack? 

“John!” she called. “Ethan needs us! I can’t move the barricade - it’s too heavy. And there’s other people out there - We must go out and help them!”

Gripping the old cavalry sabre, he appeared at her side. In the dim light, his face shone like pearl, the raised scars livid against his skin. He put his eye to the window. “My God…” he breathed. “Where the hell did they all come from?” With the superhuman strength he rarely displayed in public, he tossed aside the heavy barrels and furniture as if they weighed nothing. As he flung open the door, he turned to Vanessa. “Please – stay here.” And without looking back, he raced into the darkness.

Vanessa tied her shawl more tightly across her breasts, and clutching Watson’s service revolver, stepped through the door. Instantly, daggers of ice stabbed into every part of her body, the cold so intense she could barely move. The wind whipped her long hair away from her face, and blew bits of snow into her eyes. It seemed to howl in triumph as she struggled towards where she knew Ethan must be. And once again, she could hear Dracula calling to her. It hadn't hurt before. But now his voice probed relentlessly, burning like poisoned metal. She could sense his delight in her agony. She put a hand to her head, grimacing with the pain.

*****

Ethan had taken cover behind a large wooden barrel, and was reloading his Colt. He had only a few silver bullets left, and when those were done, he’d be forced to rely on lead ones incised with crosses. As he snapped shut the chamber of his revolver, he glanced to the side, and spotted someone moving towards him through the gloom. His wolf sense immediately recognized her. “Damn it, Vanessa,” he muttered. In a moment she reached him, and Ethan pulled her quickly behind the barrel. “Stay down,” he hissed. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Did you really think I’d let you fight them alone?” She crouched uncomfortably, and shivered as the wind seeped through her shawl and borrowed nightshirt. Cautiously, she lifted her head, and peered over the top of the barrel. She could see more vampires moving rapidly towards them. Her lips tightened, and she took aim. The gun bucked in her hand, spewing smoke, and one of the creatures toppled, its skull completely shattered, pieces of bone flying everywhere.

“Good shot,” Ethan grinned, and took aim at another vampire that was leaping forward, over the body of its fallen comrade. “Guard my back,” he added, and his revolver thundered once more. 

Vanessa nodded, and nestling her back against his, glanced towards the warehouse. Through the snowfall, a flash of light flared, and she heard the boom of Dr. Watson’s rifle. A vampire screeched, and fell sideways into the snow, while another turned to flee. Smiling grimly, she aimed the pistol, relieved to discover that the clatter of gunfire drowned out Dracula’s insidious voice. 

*****

A knife whizzed over Holmes’ head, and struck a vampire in the stomach. It staggered from the impact. Yanking the weapon from its flesh, the creature tossed it to the ground, and spying its approaching enemies, raced awkwardly down the street, it unnaturally long arms dangling at its sides. “Leave this one to me!” the man with the long silver hair called, as he grabbed the knife, and sprinted after his wounded prey. The escaping vampire swayed as it ran, blood drenching the front of its ragged jacket.

With a screech, another threw itself at Holmes. Slaver dripping from its jaws, it snapped at the detective’s throat. He could smell its fetid breath, as its fangs brushed against the heavy wool of his scarf. With a violent heave, the detective pushed the thing from him. Growling, it lunged again, too close to Holmes for Ethan or Vanessa to risk a shot. They watched anxiously, as the detective lifted his sword, and using all of his strength, drove the razor sharp blade into his attacker’s eye. As he dragged it back out, the thing staggered, clawing at its eye socket, and shrieking in agony. Holmes lifted his blood-smeared rapier once again, and stared into the vampire’s face. It glared back at him from a single eye that burned like crimson flame. Its other eye dangled from an empty socket, from which pus and clotted ichor dripped.

“Mercy,” the creature mumbled, stretching out its hand in supplication. The nails were long and yellowed, filthy with dried blood. Its tenor voice was surprisingly cultured – the voice of the innocent young man it had once been.

The detective hesitated - and in that instant, the nosferatu roared, and sprang towards him, intent on tearing out his throat. As he twisted away, a gleaming blade flashed. The vampire’s head tumbled to the snow, spraying ichor in all directions, its decapitated body collapsing in a heap. Where the sabre had touched, its hide was branded with a charcoaled pattern of crudely etched crosses.

Holmes turned to his savior – a scarred man with long black hair and gilt eyes that shone like a cat's in the darkness. Nodding his thanks, he stared at the grisly remains. “Why doesn’t it disintegrate like the others?”

“I think it’s still fairly new, as vampires go,” the other answered. His eyes swept the area, seeking any further danger. “It’s only the older ones that turn to mush and bones when they die.” 

Another man approached. In his early sixties, his gray bearded face was lean and handsome, his vivid green eyes narrowed against the wind-blown snow. “I think that’s the last of them,” he announced, staring inquisitively at Holmes and John Clare.

“Well, Malcolm,” someone drawled from the darkness. “I see that you and Kaetenay have tracked me down.” The tall stranger stepped from behind the barrel, followed by a woman. At this distance, her features were nebulous. All Holmes could make out was her white garment, which rippled in the wind, drifting around her body like mist.

The older man nodded. “And a damned good thing we did, Ethan. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing – but it’s obvious that those creatures were not here by accident. They were sent by their master to find you.”

“Not me,” the man named Ethan replied. “They’re here for another.”

“Indeed? And who would that be?”

There was a distant shriek. Everyone turned, and stared down the street. A mass of bones and ruined clothing lay in the snow, just visible in the moonlight. Kaetenay gazed impassively at what was left of the vampire, then turned and walked back to the others. “That one will not trouble us again,” he declared, wiping blood from the blade of his knife. Like Holmes’ swordstick, the weapon glinted with a coating of silver.

Hand in hand, Ethan and the woman walked towards the little group. As they neared, the moon shone directly on her face, and Sir Malcolm gasped. “My God,” he exclaimed. “V-Vanessa? How is this possible?”

Kaetenay started, his expression just as astonished. “Why have you come back to us?” He raised his hand and sketched a protective sign in the air. “Have you some message from the spirit realm?”

“No, I’m not a ghost,” she said. “It’s really me.”

Sir Malcolm shook his head, remembering all too well the terrible fate of his daughter Mina. He raised his pistol, anxiously searching Vanessa's face for any signs of incipient vampirism.

Ethan put his arm protectively around Vanessa, and pulled her close. “Put your gun away, Malcolm. She's no ghost - and she's no vampire either. She’s just as alive as we are.”

Tears formed in Sir Malcolm’s eyes as he holstered his revolver, and stepped towards her. “Vanessa, we thought we’d lost you forever.” He took her hand, her skin warm and living against his. “I don’t know how, my dear – but you’re obviously alive, and I’m so very, very glad.” Gently, he embraced her, for a moment too overcome to speak.

“It’s a long story.” Her gaze traveled to John Clare, and she smiled. “And I have two very dear friends to thank.”

A pleased grin wreathed Kaetenay’s rugged features, and he patted Vanessa’s shoulder. “We rejoice that the Gods have seen fit to return you to us.”

Holmes tilted his head, contemplating his new companions. Some deep mystery was at play here, and he felt his curiosity rise. Why were they so surprised the lady was alive? Had they thought her a victim of the nosferatu? It was also obvious they’d been expecting trouble of the vampiric kind, and had come suitably prepared. He glanced at the youngest man, noting his great height and scuffed leather boots. This must be the fellow who had escorted Watson to the warehouse. He gestured toward the sprawl of dead vampires. "Thank you - all of you - for coming to my aid."

“We were already on the hunt,” Sir Malcolm replied. “We could see that the odds were stacked against you, so jumped into the fray.”

“I wondered why the two of you were following me.” 

“So, you knew all the time we were there?” The other Englishman laughed. “Well – we wondered the same of you.”

“Why are you in this area?” the shaman suddenly asked. His manner was blunt, but kindly. 

“Like you, I am on the hunt – in my case, I seek my friend. He was expected home hours ago, but never returned. I fear for his safety.”

“Is your friend by any chance, a physician?” Ethan inquired.

Holmes turned to him. “Yes – Dr. John Watson.”

“He’s wounded, but alive. I brought him here for treatment.” 

The detective closed his eyes, his relief palatable. “For that, I am deeply grateful.” He smiled, and extended his hand. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Ethan Chandler - at your service." His answering grip was firm, giving the impression of great strength held carefully in check. Something about the man reminded Holmes of a wolf. He had the same inherent nobility and bearing, with a sense of quiet purpose. "And this is my fiancée, Vanessa Ives." With a smile, he indicated the pale young woman at his side.

She flashed a grin. "Mr. Holmes."

"Miss Ives." The detective tipped his hat. She was quite beautiful, with a strange otherworldly air that hinted at many secrets.

A voice called out from the direction of the warehouse. “Ethan! Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Victor,” Ethan replied, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. “The coast is clear, and we’re coming back in. And we have company - Sir Malcolm and Kaetenay are here, along with Watson’s friend, Sherlock Holmes.”

“The screaming of the vampires was impossible to ignore,” Holmes observed, not without some irony. “As were the gunshots. I’m amazed no one else in the neighborhood saw fit to fetch the police, or at least investigate.”

“Most folks around here just keep their heads down, especially at night. It’s a rough area – and with vampires still infesting the city, even less safe than usual.”

“Point taken. Anyway, as you can imagine, I’m anxious to see Watson. But first I need to retrieve something.” Holmes sheathed his sword, and glanced around for the doctor’s satchel. “Ah, there it is.”

“We should get inside,” Kaetenay urged in a tense voice. “Others will be coming – and they will be far worse than the small fry we have just dispatched.”

Vanessa shivered at his words. Absently, she rubbed her arms, which were covered with goose bumps from the cold. Now that the screams and gunfire had faded away, Dracula's voice had returned. Go away, she thought angrily. Ethan’s right, you’re just a damned coward. For a brief instant, she thought she saw the vampire glaring directly at her, malice flashing in the night-dark depths of his eyes. Startled, she cried out, and stumbled slightly, almost falling to the ground.

Ethan reached out and steadied her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “We need to get you out of the cold.” She nodded, and laid her head wearily against his shoulder. As the group trudged to the warehouse, the American’s sharp brown eyes continually combed the area for potential threats. His gaze lifted towards the sky. A hint of delicate pink showed through the snow and leaden clouds. It would soon be dawn, and they would have a respite before the next wave of attack. The first order of the day would be to evaluate their stores. Ammunition and other supplies were likely running low, and more silver was needed too. They would have to do something about that right away. Beside him, he heard a stifled groan from Vanessa. Concerned, he glanced down. She leaned against him, an odd expression on her face. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

She gazed up at him. “He’s out there, Ethan.”

He knew exactly whom she meant. “I reckon he is. But never fear – we’ll deal with him when the time comes.”

“I can hear him, in my head – calling to me.”

Ethan frowned. The vampire lord was obviously trying to establish a link with Vanessa, attempting to regain control. “Keep fighting it.”

“I am,” she replied. “But he refuses to go away. And it hurts. Anger and noise seems to help, though.” Her eyes met his. “And you. When I think of you, his voice finally ceases.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Then keep thinking of me, darlin’.” He fought to restrain his anger, wanting to remain calm for Vanessa's sake. But the bastard was hurting her now. He'd make him pay for that, and for everything else he'd done to her.

The warehouse door opened, and a weary looking Victor Frankenstein and John Watson appeared. Watson held the rifle in the crook of his arm, its barrel pointed at the ground. His wound had bled a little, staining the bandage around his throat. “Holmes,” he murmured, wonder in his voice. “You’re here.”

“My dear fellow,” the detective answered, his eyes suspiciously moist. He handed his friend the satchel. “I managed to retrieve your medical bag.”

“Thank you, Holmes.” The doctor hesitated for a moment, and then added softly, “I should have listened to you. The night does hold untold horrors.”

“No, you were right to visit your patient – without the medicine, she might have died. But I should have been at your side.” If not for Ethan Chandler, Watson would have perished in that godforsaken alley. Holmes would not make the same mistake twice - next time, he would insist on accompanying his friend. As the door slammed behind them and they strode through the darkened building, he glanced curiously at the array of scientific equipment. Something strange was going on here – perhaps even stranger than vampires.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Disclaimer:_ Obviously Penny Dreadful, and its characters, as well as the characters of classic horror literature and film, belong to their respective creators / writers / networks, etc. I'm just a devoted fan playing in their sandbox, and make no profit, etc.


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